


The Quiet Moments

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddles, Cuddling, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cuddling. Lots of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quiet Moments

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, y'all, this is four thousand words of somewhat ambiguous cuddling. I'd love to hear how readers interpret the relationship in this one, as I have a pretty solid idea of what it is (in my head), but I'm sure others will interpret it differently, and I always like to hear about it. (Once you've read, I'm not adverse to telling how I see it, I just don't want to bias folks.)
> 
> ANYWAY. I was craving cuddle!fic. So I wrote some. Thanks of an epic sort to Moony and PrettyArbitrary for betaing. Any further mistakes or poor writing are due to my own impatience.
> 
> ETA 5/24/17 this fic is now available in Russian! HOW COOL IS THAT?! It can be found here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/5543058 (I would try to html that but I am notoriously fail at that, so please copy and paste.)

The first time it happens is... unexpected. John wakes up on the sofa in the lounge, one foot on the floor, one arm over his head, a crick in his neck and an aching back, with six feet of consulting detective sprawled on top of him, snoring softly. Sherlock’s head is on his chest, his hair tickling John’s nose.

John sneezes, his whole body jerking with it, and Sherlock snorts and lifts his head. 

“Oh,” he says. “Um.” Sherlock scrambles off of John and into a sitting position, running his hands through his hair, a faint tinge of pink across his cheeks. “My apologies, John,” he continues, not looking at him, running his hands up and down his thighs before standing.

“It’s fine,” John says, bewildered at Sherlock’s reaction, watching as he practically flees the room. The sound of Sherlock’s door shutting is the only reply he gets.

\----

They’ve always been tactile with each other. 

When he’s walking home from the Tesco Express down the street the next day John stops to think about it, and he decides that it was Sherlock who started it, with his complete lack of concern for personal space. But he’s never done anything to discourage Sherlock’s grabbing him, or putting a hand on his shoulder when they’re leaving a crime scene, or sitting too close on the sofa.

And whatever, it’s not a problem. John may be straight (mostly), but he’s not narrow, and he’s had enough therapy in his life to be able to admit (to himself, anyway) that he doesn’t get enough simple, unencumbered physical contact. Sherlock certainly doesn’t seem like he’s ever had that either, especially when John considers Mycroft; they don’t strike him as the sort of brothers who hug. Ever. So it’s nice, that Sherlock is tactile with him, and John lets himself be tactile back, more so than he’s ever been with someone who’s just a mate.

It’s Sherlock, and lord knows John has long been aware that he’ll do anything for Sherlock. It’s probably really unhealthy for John, the amount of devotion he feels for Sherlock, the lengths to which he knows he’ll go, but it’s also probably good for Sherlock, who as far as John can tell has never had much positive attention, has never had someone like him for himself before John came along.

\----

Sherlock is less tactile with him for the next week or so, keeping himself to himself. 

John doesn’t object, but he doesn’t respond in kind. He goes right on with how he’s always been with Sherlock, and doesn’t bring up Sherlock’s reticence. John misses it, and he hopes it doesn’t last. It strikes him, just how much he misses it. In its absence he notices more than ever before just how tactile Sherlock was with him.

Sherlock gradually relaxes; that reassurance John thinks he sees must be real. Sherlock loses that faint hint of worry around his eyes, that slight furrow between his brows that just makes John want to smooth it away and hug him. He slowly returns to his normal behavior (normal for Sherlock, anyway), though he looks at John in a slightly different way, as though he still worries that he’s being too forward, that John is going to say “no, stop, that’s too far”.

John hasn’t found the point at which he will say that yet; he’s not entirely sure there is one.

\----

It happens again, approximately a week and a half after Sherlock has returned to what John now thinks of as his normal behavior. John is engrossed in the movie he’s watching, and Sherlock has finally stopped grumbling. 

Apparently, he’s only gone quiet because he’s fallen asleep, and he gradually slumps over against John. When he hits John’s shoulder, John looks down at him and shifts slightly, and Sherlock--there’s no better word for it--snuggles closer. 

John smiles and doesn’t stop him. They gradually shift, one at a time, slowly, until John is sprawled on his back with Sherlock mostly on top of him again.

It’s nice. It feels safe, and warm. John knows that’s probably not how Sherlock would think of it, but the weight of him on top of John makes him feel safe and protected, and protective. He puts his arms around Sherlock loosely, threads his fingers together, and rests his head against Sherlock’s.

Eventually, the movie ends, and John nudges Sherlock gently. Sherlock makes a grumbling noise and turns his face into John’s chest. 

John lets him. He runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair; it’s something he’s always wanted to do. It’s soft and fine, like silk through his fingers.

“Sherlock, it’s time for bed,” he says, quietly, still carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “I can’t sleep on the sofa, it kills my back. You have to let me go to bed, please.” 

Sherlock wakes slowly, and then all at once when he realizes where he is. He starts to move, to scramble away, blushing again, and John catches him, stops him.

“Hey, it’s fine.”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him, or acknowledge his words, or try to pull his hand out of John’s grasp.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

After a moment, he does.

“It’s fine. It’s nice. I like it. Okay?”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, searching for the punchline, for John to be mocking him, and then nods when he doesn’t find it. John releases him, and he stands, smiles a little at John, and then goes into his room.

\----

They only talk about it once.

“I meant what I said,” John says, the next evening, from the kitchen. He’s making dinner, and Sherlock is perched in his chair in the lounge, his blue dressing gown on and his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

“If you need--” and John has to stop and think for a moment, because while Sherlock will call a spade a spade, John doesn’t think he’ll appreciate the word ‘cuddle’ “--physical contact or comfort sometimes, I’m completely fine with that. I need that too. And I trust you. I feel safe with you--not that I should because you’re a mad wanker, but I do. So it’s fine. I’d prefer maybe not in public, people talk enough, but when we’re here it’s fine. You don’t even need to ask, but you can if you want. I just don’t want you to feel like I’m going to reject you or make you feel badly about needing that, because I need it too sometimes.”

John glances over at Sherlock. His chin is on his knee, but when he sees John looking, he lifts his head and nods, once. John smiles and goes back to his cooking. 

\----

Sherlock leads John from a crime scene with a hand on the small of his back, two days later. He’s speaking rapidly, collating and organizing his observations and deductions, seemingly almost unaware of his surroundings as they head towards the street. John watches in fascination; it’s always a thrill to watch the way Sherlock’s mind works. He loves it. He loves that Sherlock keeps him at his side, doesn’t run off ahead of him (as much) or leave him behind. He loves the feel of Sherlock’s hand against his back; it feels intimate.

They climb into a cab, and Sherlock only scoots halfway across the bench seat, leaving John to crowd in next to him; when he sits they’re touching from knee to shoulder. The cab pulls away from the curb as Sherlock gives the address for Baker Street, and John settles back to listen to Sherlock’s continued thinking out loud--only he doesn’t continue speaking.

Most of the ride is silent, until Sherlock says, quiet enough that only John hears him, “You need not ask either, John.”

John looks at him, surprised. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to ever say a word about this new permission John’s given him; certainly hadn’t expected Sherlock to extend the same permission towards him.

He smiles and sets his hand on Sherlock’s knee, squeezing gently. The left side of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up.

\----

John still has nightmares, sometimes. They’re less frequent than they used to be, but all the worse for it, as John no longer knows when to expect them. He’s never prepared. Often, they seem the same on the surface, sand and sun and blood, but when he finally reaches the dying soldiers he’ll never manage to save, they’re always Sherlock.

“What took you so long, John?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Where have you been?” He chokes on his own blood. “Why did you leave me alone?”

“Why do you leave me to die?”

He wakes in a cold sweat to the sound of the violin floating up the stairs, mournful and low. John sits on the bed for a few minutes catching his breath before he pulls on a jumper over his t-shirt and pants and stumbles downstairs. 

The lounge blazes with light and warmth from the fire in the grate, and Sherlock is standing at the window, playing. John goes by him and into the kitchen, setting the kettle on to boil and pulling out the chamomile. There’s a chance he’ll sleep again, though it’ll probably be a while.

He gets out two mugs and the honey.

Sherlock stops playing long enough to take a mug of tea from him and look at him for a moment. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t thank John or comment on his nightmare, simply looks at him for that single drawn out moment, reading it all in his face and his posture, then puts his mug on the desk and turns back to his music stand.

John sinks into his armchair and sips his tea, shuts his eyes and leans his head back to listen when Sherlock starts playing again. Eventually, he floats, neither asleep nor awake, the music holding him aloft, soft and lilting.

At some point the music ends, but John keeps floating. It’s not until Sherlock murmurs, “Sleep now, John,” in his ear that he sinks back into sleep.

John wakes up the next morning in Sherlock’s bed, with Sherlock spooned behind him, and he feels safe, and warm, and thankful.

\----

Mrs Hudson finds them out first, of course.

After John tells Sherlock he’s allowed to cuddle with him whenever Sherlock wants, the frequency with which Sherlock falls asleep against John on the sofa increases, slowly but surely. 

So it was inevitable that Mrs Hudson would drop in one evening and find them sprawled together on that sofa, Sherlock fast asleep and John with one hand idly carding through his hair, reading a book rather awkwardly.

(He props it against Sherlock’s head when he needs to turn the page; Sherlock’s fluffy hair cushions his scalp and John is pretty sure he doesn’t even feel it.)

Mrs Hudson just stops and grins at them.

She has the wrong idea, of course, but John doesn’t bother trying to explain. It wouldn’t come out right, anyway. He would say, _no really Mrs. H, we’re not lovers, we just like to cuddle because we’re both of us starved for touch_ , and all she would hear is _excuses, excuses_. So he simply smiles up at her and say, “Did you need something, Mrs Hudson?”

“No, dear. Only I was wondering if you have any chamomile? I’m all out and I fancy a cuppa with my soother this evening.” She continues to grin at them.

John nods. “I think there’s some, middle cabinet over the sink, bottom shelf. Sorry I can’t get up and get it for you.” 

“No no, you just stay there with himself,” she says fondly. “I’m sure he’s short of sleep like always. Him with his dashing about.” She hurries into the kitchen and rustles about until she comes up with the tea she was after and then heads out again, throwing a “good night, dears!” back up the stairs.

Sherlock lifts his head enough to roll his eyes at John before settling down and drifting off again.

John chuckles and goes back to his book.

\----

It’s John who starts the kissing. Not snogging, no, but affection. He’s not even sure what prompted it the first time. It was probably something Sherlock did that amused him, that’s often what prompts him to do things like giving the man an affectionate peck on the cheek, or whatever bit of him happens to be nearest.

He’s actually not even sure when the first time was. But he knows he started it with a kiss pressed to the top of Sherlock’s head when he’s asleep, or on his forehead on those rare occasions he can reach Sherlock’s forehead. Very rarely, a kiss on the cheek, and even more seldom a kiss on the lips. Almost always they happen when he’s feeling more affection for Sherlock than usual, when it has filled him so full that it aches and a smile just isn’t enough expression of it, or sometimes when he feels like it’s the best choice for the moment, or that Sherlock needs that extra reminder, _you are loved_. A kiss lets him say that without having to use the actual words, and considering how much speech has been replaced by touch in their relationship already, it makes sense.

Sherlock doesn’t kiss him as often. He shows his affection in other ways, in the occasional tea that appears just when John needs it, in the violin waking him from nightmares, in the way that sometimes John will wake up as Sherlock is pulling back the covers and sliding into bed behind him.

\----

And sometimes Sherlock does decide to sleep next to John. It’s not very often; they don’t actually share a bed very frequently. It most often happens when John has had a nightmare and dozes off in the lounge after, listening to Sherlock play. Sherlock tells himself it’s expedience those times, tugging John to his feet and leading him down the hall. He’s nearly perfected the art of getting John to make that trek without fully waking up again. 

Sherlock doesn’t think about how nice it is to have someone in bed next to him, how safe it makes him feel, how cherished (even though he’s the one who puts the other person there, most of the time). (Although he’s also noticed that even if John wakes up again on those nights, he doesn’t go back upstairs; he stays with Sherlock.)

When Sherlock joins John, it is inevitably after there’s been a lack of cases for a while, and Sherlock has gone from elated to bored to desperate to despairing. He does it to try and turn off his brain for a while; sometimes it even works. 

John never says anything to him, when he turns over to Sherlock pulling back the duvet and sinking down next to him. He simply opens his arms and lets Sherlock cuddle in close.

\----

Usually, when one or the other of them falls asleep cushioned against the other on the sofa, when the end of the night comes--the movie’s ended, or John’s arbitrarily decided upon bedtime--they go their separate ways. Often, Sherlock will wake from his nap and go back to whatever it was he was doing before he decided to make a pillow of John. Or John will rouse himself, mumble something about it being late, and shuffle upstairs to his bed.

They don’t talk about it, and the nights they share a bed are still fairly infrequent.

But occasionally, John will nudge Sherlock awake at the end of the night, or the movie, or the crap telly. They will both stand, and John will take Sherlock’s hand and tug him gently towards the stairs. He won’t say a word, but Sherlock can see the plea in his eyes, _stay with me_. 

Sherlock always complies, even if he had other plans, even if there are experiments to tend to.

\----

Touch has become an integral part of how they communicate with each other. Between that and the language of gesture and expression that has developed between them since becoming flatmates and partners, there are days they don’t actually speak out loud to each other at all.

John can remember several lazy Sundays when literally the only words exchanged between him and his best mate were, “Thai or Indian?” and “I fancy Japanese.”

If Sherlock comes up with a gesture to indicate which type of takeaway he wants for dinner, even that will become unnecessary. John is waiting for the day that happens. He’s considered suggesting BSL, but Sherlock would probably deem that too easily interpreted by other parties, since it’s an already extant language.

Touch becomes how they resolve things between them, it becomes how Sherlock apologizes, when it’s needed. John still does so out loud, mostly, but Sherlock prefers it this way. It’s not a specific gesture but the manner in which he does it. It’s the only time he seems to dote on John, when he’s apologizing for something. He seems deferential, and sometimes he starts apologizing even before John knows what for, like the time he scorched the ceiling of the kitchen (well, the third time he did it, anyway). John ended up cleaning it up anyway, though Sherlock actually helped a bit. 

They learn to read each other in the set of shoulders and a hand laid against a forearm. Others find Sherlock completely inscrutable, but not John. And though people believe they know John, believe he’s easily read, only Sherlock is truly capable of translating him.

\----

Sherlock’s brother finds them snuggled together on the couch, just like Mrs Hudson had but reversed. It’s one of those not too common times when John has fallen asleep on Sherlock instead of vice versa. Sherlock’s been thinking about it, and he believes that’s down to the fact that John has a far more regular sleep routine than Sherlock does. 

Although, since they’ve grown more comfortable with what John refers to as cuddling, his sleep schedule has grown much more regular. Sherlock knows John calls it that, of course. John tries not to say it in his presence, but he’s slipped a few times, and Sherlock makes sure to glare at him each time, even though he doesn’t mind too much, because he knows that’s what it is. He simply doesn’t like the word. He has yet to come up with a better alternative, unfortunately, so he simply tries not to speak of it at all. John makes that remarkably easy for him. All this extra is down to the fact that John makes a very comfortable bed, and his tendency to fall asleep when in close physical contact with John. 

He’s enjoying having John laid atop him, breath deep and even, body relaxed in sleep the way it never is awake. He likes the weight of John on his chest, pressing him into the sofa, it makes him feel warm and content and safe.

Mycroft lifts one eloquent brow at him and wanders across the lounge, swinging his perpetually present umbrella back and forth.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock hisses. He takes care not to jar John while he glares at his brother.

Mycroft just smiles at him. “Just checking in, brother dear. It’s nice to see you and Doctor Watson so... cosy.”

“Go away,” Sherlock replies through clenched teeth. 

John shifts slightly, coughs into Sherlock’s chest, and turns his head away from Mycroft to hide the grin. Mycroft glares at him suspiciously.

“Do not wake John,” Sherlock orders, putting his arms protectively around John.

Mycroft only remains for a few moments more. Sherlock is certain that the surveillance inside the flat has been renewed again, and Mycroft only wanted to come by so he could see his brother in what he surely thinks of as a compromising position; sentiment not being an advantage, after all. He doesn’t care, he won’t let Mycroft destroy this. It doesn’t hurt anyone, and it helps both him and John.

John waits until Mycroft is gone before he starts chuckling. Sherlock joins him, and soon they’re both laughing.

\----

Different things make them seek the other out for comfort, for physical contact: John’s nightmares, Sherlock’s moods. A lazy Sunday, a failed experiment, a successful experiment, a frustrating case, a bad day at work; but nothing makes them cling like a scrape up against the rough side of death.

And that happens all too often.

The taxi ride back to the flat is tense and silent; they sit on opposite sides and avoid all contact, physical or otherwise. 

John is the one to leap from the cab the moment it stops, rushing for the door and disappearing while Sherlock is still digging in his wallet for cash to give the driver.

Sherlock follows in his footsteps slowly. It’s hard to walk, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s because of the way his whole body seems to be trembling or for some as-yet-undetermined reason. Either way, he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

John is stood in the middle of the lounge when Sherlock finally makes it to the top of the stairs. His hands are fisted at his sides, his body rigid. Sherlock stops just inside the door, looking at John; just looking for once, not observing, his mind blank. He removes his scarf with shaking hands.

“John, you--”

“Sherlock, I can’t--” John turns and crosses the room to Sherlock, plowing right into him and hugging him, hard, arms tight around his waist, under the Belstaff. Sherlock nearly collapses in relief; all of his limbs go wobbly with it, with the unresolved terror as it finally starts to leech from his system.. _It’s all right_ , he thinks, _John is alive. You are alive._

He puts his arms around John and holds on for dear life.

They stay like that for a long time, until Sherlock has stopped trembling, and until John’s hands have unfurled against his back; Sherlock can feel the warmth of them through his jacket and shirt, and it reminds him that John is alive, that they both are, and that they are unscathed.

Eventually, eventually, they slowly let go of one another, though Sherlock allows his hand to linger on John’s arm. There are glances exchanged, and John moves so he is grasping Sherlock’s hand, and they go down the hall to Sherlock’s room.

\----

John wakes up alone. He should be used to it, but he’s in Sherlock’s bed, and that has never happened before. For a moment, he feels nothing but panic, that last night hadn’t been a close call at all, that he’d died, or that Sherlock had. He stumbles from the bed, nearly tripping over the duvet in his haste, and rushes out to the lounge, stopping short when he sees Sherlock curled up in his armchair, arms wrapped around his knees and head bowed.

For a moment, John just stands there, breathing heavily, watching to make sure Sherlock is breathing as well. Then he crosses the room and stands in front of the chair. Sherlock looks up at him after another moment, his eyes red and haunted. He makes a small sound, distressed, despairing, and John steps forward until his knees hit the chair and pushes a hand into Sherlock’s hair.

At the contact, Sherlock sighs and his shoulders slump. He unwraps his arms and drops his feet to the floor on either side of John’s legs, leans forward and wraps his arms around John’s waist, pressing his nose into John’s stomach and taking a deep breath.

Neither of them speaks. John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, over and over again. A nightmare, he figures, and he’s not overly surprised after the night they had. _A nightmare, and he didn’t want to wake me._

“You can always wake me up,” he says, softly.

Sherlock nods against his stomach but otherwise doesn’t move. 

After a few more minutes of quiet, John with his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock with his face pressed against John’s stomach, John steps back. He holds out a hand, which Sherlock takes, and helps him to his feet. John tilts his head in the general direction of Sherlock’s room, and Sherlock nods.

They go back down the hallway and back to bed, where it’s safe for both of them, where they can cling and keep each other afloat. John pushes Sherlock into bed and follows him, spooning up close behind him and twining their fingers together over Sherlock’s chest. John thinks, _I’ve got you_ , over and over. _I’ve got you. I won’t let go._


End file.
